Suddenly, you realize you hate
the idea of his hands
on your body.

For him to be at a point where the tips
of his calloused fingers can graze the pinnacles
of your spine and
settle upon your flaws,
weigh down on each freckle
and scar
on your flesh and become far heavier
than that feeling of dreadful nervousness that bubbles up
inside you when you're around
him.

He’s astute and adroit,
in order
halcyon.

The worst thing you can do
is fall in love with a boy
who loves books because

he will open you up,
like his favorite novel,
brush the dust from your cover,
read your story from start
to finish.

And if he doesn’t like books, then
he loves poetry,
and you’ll be a poem that
breathes.

If he doesn’t love poetry, then
he loves music,
and you’ll be a song that trickles
against his eardrums in a bittersweet
symphony of every
drop
of sadness
you've ever felt.

Like rain, he'll drench your pages
Leave you damaged
stained

But you will love it
You will love it.